


Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [39]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Green-Eyed Monster, Wicca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-07 08:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: Jealousy is a powerful emotion, one that has all too often led to tragedy of one form or another.  As Team One attempts to rescue a young woman under threat from her boyfriend, jealousy slips in between the cracks and sends the hot call spiraling in directions none of them could have predicted.





	1. Back in the Saddle

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the thirty-ninth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "More Than Blood".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

“Please, please,” the woman begged.  “He’s coming.  Please help me.”

She clutched a phone to her ear as she knelt in the middle of her bathroom with the door locked.  From the outside, she could hear banging and yelling; the door jostled in its frame from the force of the blows against it.

“Suzanne, don’t make me come in there!” a male voice roared, his yell punctuated with a heavy _thud_ against the door.

“Suzanne,” the female cop in the woman’s ear urged, “Tell me who he is.”

“I _can’t!_ ” Suzanne sobbed, clutching the phone even harder.  “He’ll _kill_ me.”

“I promise he won’t,” the cop replied.  “We will protect you, Suzanne, but we need to know who he is.”

“No, no,” the woman wailed.  “Once you know, you’ll side with _him_.”

“Suzanne, open this door!”

“Suzanne,” the female cop countered, “I promise we won’t.  I promise we will protect you, no matter _who_ he is.”  The cop hesitated.  “Now, will you _please_ tell me who he is?”

The woman’s head shook frantically, even as she cringed away from her bathroom door.  The yells from outside were getting louder, the door was bouncing with each blow.  “No, no, no,” she moaned.  “You won’t believe me.”

 “We will,” the cop promised again.

“If I have to come in there!” the male voice threatened, his voice a growl of fury.

 “No, you don’t understand,” Suzanne retorted, a spark of anger running through her voice.  “He’s _like you_.”

The cop hesitated.  “Suzanne, what do you mean?” she pressed.  “What do you mean, he’s ‘like me’?”

“He’s a cop,” Suzanne gasped out, before giving a little scream as the door jumped again.

“Okay, he’s a cop,” the female cop acknowledged.  “That doesn’t change anything, Suzanne.  We’re still going to get you out of this safely, I promise.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”  For a blessed moment, there was silence; Suzanne smiled, a tiny quirk of her lips.  “Now will you tell me who he is, Suzanne?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Suzanne started to say, “His name’s…”

The door broke open; a gunshot rang out; Suzanne screamed in terror; the phone dropped to the floor unnoticed.

* * * * *

_5 hours earlier_

Ed walked into the station, a grin on his face.  He and Sophie were still talking, his baby girl was growing by leaps and bounds, and his last off-shift day had been a day out with his son; Sophie had gotten them all-day tickets to the SkyDome **(1)** for a Blue Jays game and ordered them to have ‘lots of fun’ as she pushed them out the front door.  So far, the constable was well and truly getting the best of both worlds: family and job.  The more cynical part of him wondered how long it would last, a thought that dimmed his smile, but only a little.

“Ed!” Wordy called, a grin on his face.  “How’d the game go?”

“You knew?” Ed demanded.

Wordy’s grin grew.  “Shel helped Soph get the tickets.”

Ed smacked Wordy’s shoulder for not giving him a heads up, but his smile mirrored Wordy’s.  “It was great; Clark was yelling louder than I was.”

His best friend laughed, returning the whack.  “So?  Got any other plans?”

Ed shrugged.  “We’ll see; Sophie wants me taking care of Izzy most days.”  For a moment, the two men traded identical wicked grins, remembering how Wordy had helped Ed with his last ‘Izzy day’, then Ed moved past and headed for the locker room.

* * * * *

Spike dangled upside down on the climbing tower, Lou acting as his belayer as he set up the last part of their latest prank.  Nothing much…just a little…challenge…for the next few groups who used the tower.  Hopefully also a reminder to his fellow SRU members about how a prank was _supposed_ to work.  Small, subtle, and laughter inducing.  He inspected the liquid, grinning at how it only darkened the handhold a little.  Once it dried, it would be nearly impossible to spot from the ground.  Best of all, the rain would eventually wash his prank away, so he wouldn’t even have to clean it up himself.  The bomb tech coated the last top handhold, grinning as he imagined the results.

He’d needed Lou’s help to pull this particular practical joke off, but at first Lou hadn’t been convinced his prank wouldn’t hurt anyone.  Hence why Spike was only coating the top row of handholds, rather than all of them as he’d originally planned.  Also why his hand was still a little sore from the test run Lou’d insisted on last week.  Carefully, Spike maneuvered himself upright again and double-checked the camera nestled right at the top of the tower.  Satisfied that it was set up and ready to record, he leaned back and called, “Rappelling!”

“Rappel on,” Lou called back.

Adjusting his hold on his can of lubricant, Spike bounced down the side of the tower, his boots thumping on the wood as he controlled his fall with the ease of long practice.  Once he was down, he announced, “Got ‘em all.”

Lou grinned.  “And the camera?”

“Yep,” Spike confirmed, setting his can down and wriggling out of his climbing harness.  “It’s all set up.”

“Team Four’s on the schedule for tomorrow,” Lou remarked casually.

The two traded wicked grins, then quickly broke down the equipment to head back inside before they got caught.

* * * * *

Once in his uniform, Ed poked his head into the briefing room; inside, his boss looked up from a stack of paperwork.  “Eddie!  How’d your day off go?”

“Clark and I had a great time,” Ed related with a grin.

Greg arched a brow.  “Sophie was okay with you two taking off?”

“Was her idea.”

Surprise flashed, then Greg’s smile appeared and he nodded in quiet approval.  “So you two are back on track?”

Ed sidled into the briefing room with a shrug.  “Not perfect, but it’s a lot better than it was,” he admitted.

“Progress is always good,” Greg pointed out.

“Soph wants to know when you and the kids want to come over for dinner,” Ed observed to the ceiling, smirking at the sound of his boss coughing at the sudden blindside.

“What?” the other man finally sputtered.

Ed’s smirk grew as he met wide hazel eyes.  “Didn’t I tell you?  She’s adopted the entire team.  That’s why she let me stay.”

Greg’s eyes widened even more and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to backpedal away from the offer.

“Relax, Greg, it doesn’t have to be anytime soon,” Ed relented, before cocking his head in silent question and demand.

His boss played with his pen.  “You might want to start with Spike,” he advised after a few moments, though he was clearly stalling.

“I’ll let her know,” Ed agreed, still staring at his boss.  One eyebrow rose and the sniper made himself comfortable.

Greg considered, tapping his fingers on the table.  “It’s not me,” he informed his team leader after a minute.  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind dragging the kids out of the apartment…last time I tried, they both bit my head off.”

Ed surveyed his boss, searching for any evasiveness.  Seeing none, he snagged a chair and dropped into it.  “Any idea why?”

“You know what happened with Clark?”

“Yeah, he told me.”

The SRU Sergeant leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.  “I suspect that…situation…is a big part of why they’d both suddenly rather stay home than go out.  But I’m starting to think there’s more to it.”

Ed nodded slowly.  “It _has_ been a couple months,” he remarked.  “Even if they aren’t completely over it, why hide out at home?  They been skipping school?”

“No,” Greg replied at once.  “As for hiding at home, that’s my big question right now, Eddie.”  The Sergeant considered, then nodded sharply.  “Have Sophie pick a date, preferably Friday or the weekend, and I’ll drag them along if I have to.”

“Copy that,” Ed acknowledged.  “You gonna talk to them?”

Greg lifted one shoulder.  “I want them to come to _me_ , Eddie.  But if it goes on another month, then, yeah, I’ll talk to them.”  A half-smile appeared on the stocky man’s face.  “And before you razz me about today’s workout, I’ve got a little more paperwork to finish and then I’ll be in.”

Ed smirked, rising from his seat.  “I’m going to hold you to that, Boss.”  He left as his friend bent over the paperwork once more, writing swiftly.

* * * * *

The two constables had picked side-by-side exercise bikes, as a change from their usual treadmills.  Though they let their hands brush every so often, they were exquisitely careful to keep from being obvious, both visually and emotionally.  Aside from their all-too-brief brushes and casual conversation as they worked out, they never let themselves show affection while on-duty.  It was the only way to keep their boss from discovering that they were breaking SRU policy…and didn’t regret it for a second.

“Did you ever introduce Natalie to your aunt?” Jules asked as she increased her speed.

Sam grimaced.  “Nah, we scared her off, remember?”  Jules bit her lip at the leashed anguish in Sam’s posture.  “And then Locksley pulled that… _stunt_.”

“So you’re mad at her.”

Blue eyes swept to her.  “Did you know she’s never talked to me outside of work?”

“What?”

“I know she has a daughter, but I’ve never met her.”  Sam pulled his gaze away.  “I think…  I think she wanted to know what happened to her brother…the General…but she really didn’t care about anything except…”

“Solving the mystery,” Jules filled in, anger humming in her veins at the way Sam had been treated by the callous witch.

“Exactly.”  Sam shrugged, pasting an indifferent look on his face, but Jules knew better.  Locksley had hurt him quite a bit by not caring.  That was the _last_ thing Sam needed, particularly from family.  Daringly, Jules rested one hand on Sam’s for several moments.  He tugged away, but, from the look he gave her, not because he was upset with her action.

The two looked over as Spike and Lou dashed into the workout room, mischief written all over their faces.  Jules grinned.  “What did you two do _this_ time?” she demanded.

Mischief vanished into wide-eyed innocence that neither Sam nor Jules bought for a _second_.  Spike snagged a bike next to Jules, his eyes alight with laughter and delight.  “Who says we did anything?” he asked, though he cast Jules a wink.

“You two are _always_ up to something,” Sam declared as Lou grabbed an elliptical machine behind his three teammates.

“That’s profiling,” Spike accused instantly, pointing at Sam.  “I object.  That’s profiling.  I’m offended.”

“True though,” Lou deadpanned to Jules’ laughter.

Spike threw Lou a wounded look.  “When are _we_ ever up to something, buddy?”

“Last week,” Ed called, striding in.  “You swapped all the snack bags in the cooler for health food junk.”

Jules grinned, remembering that.  “Locking all the garage doors the week before that,” she sang.

“That was an accident,” Spike protested immediately.  “Someone linked one of my training programs to the station’s computer network.”

“Which is why you didn’t get in trouble,” Greg reminded his tech and the rest of his team; the rest of them mock-sulked over the end of their teasing session as their Sergeant grabbed a free treadmill to start his workout.  “And Team Four’s tech got a week of suspension.”

“Team Four’s tech set that up?” Jules questioned; she hadn’t heard about _that_.

“His computer made the program that linked Spike’s computer to the garage controls,” Lou put in, humor gone.  “It was still on there, too.”

“Wow,” Jules whistled.  She wanted to ask if the tech had _only_ gotten suspension, but opted against it.  Instead, she grinned at Spike.  “So, spill.  What’d you two do?”

Spike’s return grin almost split his face.  “I’m not admitting to anything,” he announced, his eyes dancing.

“Of course not, Mr. Scarlatti,” their Sergeant agreed, flashing a grin of his own over one shoulder.

“Quit stalling,” Ed ordered, his tone gleeful as Wordy joined his teammates in the workout room.

Lou cleared his throat, adopting a conspiratorial air.  “It may be to our distinct advantage to watch Team Four’s practice session tomorrow,” he observed.

“Particularly if their tech goes first?” Wordy questioned.

Both men shrugged, genuine regret on their faces.  “That would be ideal,” Spike agreed somberly.

“But no way to guarantee that,” Lou finished, just as somber.

“I’ll handle that part,” their boss decided, earning several shocked looks from his teammates.  The Sergeant tapped his treadmill’s pause button and turned around, a mix of deadly seriousness and playful humor on his face.  “One last punishment.”

Team One snickered and Spike bit back laughter as Wordy speculated to Ed about possibly _filming_ Team Four’s practice session.  The team leader suggested multiple angles for prime blackmail material, earning a brief, but not serious warning look from Sarge.  The bomb tech pushed his exercise bike faster, a grin spreading across his face.  Oh, yeah, it was _good_ to be on his team!

 

[1] Although the SkyDome is now officially the Rogers Centre (as of 2005), a Toronto local like Ed would probably use the original name.  The SkyDome has a fully retractable roof to deal with rainy days.


	2. Never Have Time

The tall, blonde woman with azure tinted hair regarded her boyfriend with serious green eyes.  He’d suggested her favorite deli, but he was eating too quickly for them to talk.  And they _needed_ to talk.  She set down her sandwich, giving him an expectant look.  He froze in the middle of another bite, then chomped down, but set his own sandwich down as he finished chewing.

Suzanne hid a tiny smile at his antics.  “Is something wrong?” she asked, “You usually don’t want to meet before work.”

He shook his head, reaching into a pocket.  “Nah, nothing like that,” he replied, pulling out an envelope.  “I, um, I was a bit late, so I couldn’t get tickets for Hamlet,” he apologized, nudging the envelope towards her.

“What did you get instead, Lònaid?” Suzanne inquired, taking the offering, but not opening it.  She was disappointed, but she did know how busy he’d been lately.  He’d been so busy that this was the first time they’d been able to coordinate their schedules in weeks, hence why she’d pounced on his before-work peace offering, even though it limited their time.

“Julius Caesar,” Lònaid informed her, though his jaw twitched once at her pet name for him.  He didn’t like it and she knew it, but he was a good sport about it – most of the time.

“Ooooh,” Suzanne exclaimed, pulling the tickets out eagerly.  “When?”

He grinned at her enthusiasm.  “Weekend after next,” he told her.  “And I got my Sarge to sign off on me having that weekend off.”

“So, no last minute call that I should take a girlfriend?” Suzanne teased, though there was an annoyed undertone.

Lònaid pretended to consider.  “Wellll…maybe if the world’s about to end,” he countered.  “I might get called in for that.”

Long azure-tinted hair flew as Suzanne threw her head back and laughed at her boyfriend’s wry joke.  He tossed her an impish grin, one she returned.  When the laughter died away, Suzanne cleared her throat.  “Do you have a few more minutes?” she asked hopefully.

He frowned, checking his watch, then shrugged.  “Can I finish up while you talk?”

Suzanne nodded and he dug into his sandwich again, though he kept one eye on her.  “I told you about my priestess training, right?” she began, watching for his return nod.  “Well, tonight I have to lead my coven for the first time and I’d…I’d like you there.”  He froze, then kept eating.  “It would just be once,” Suzanne reassured her boyfriend, though below the countertop, she crossed her fingers.  “I need a male counterpart for the ritual.”

Gray eyes regarded her as Lònaid finished his sandwich in silence, his movements suddenly more abrupt.  “I’m not a member,” he reminded her.

“I know.”  Though he _would_ be after the ritual; the High Priestess would accept no less from her apprentice’s choice for her future High Priest.

His expression turned rather awkward and he fidgeted with his napkin, almost tearing it in half before he set it down again.  “Look,” he said with a sigh, rubbing his forehead.  “You’re into all this…Wicca stuff.”  She nodded once, waiting for him to make his point.  “I’m not,” Lònaid finished flatly, shifting back in his chair.  “Good luck with your ritual thing.”

“But…”  No, she needed him there!  Her mentor had made it clear that she needed to choose a High Priest…and soon.

Solemn, Lònaid fixed her with a calm expression.  “You told me, ages ago, that your coven only does rituals with full members.  _Initiated_ members.”

Suzanne stiffened.  Of all the times for him to have such a good memory.

“So it _wouldn’t_ be ‘just once’, would it?”  He waited, but didn’t seem to expect her to respond.  She wove her fingers together under the table, hiding her trembling.  He looked down at his empty plate, playing with it.  “Male counterpart…does that mean whoever you do this ritual with will be your husband?”

“Our future High Priest,” Suzanne admitted.  “But…no, not necessarily my husband.”  She drew in a deep breath.  “But I would like it to be you.”

For a minute, silence draped the air between them.  Then Lònaid sighed again, running a hand through his brown hair.  “I appreciate the offer, Suzanne, but the answer’s ‘no’.”

“No?”  She lifted pleading eyes to him, silently begging for him to change his mind, though a bitter part of her soul objected loudly to demeaning herself so.

He pushed himself up, avoiding her gaze, though his shoulders were stiff with tension.  “Look, I gotta get going.  I hope it goes well tonight.  I’m, uh, going to have to work late for the rest of the week, so…talk to you this weekend?”

Suzanne forced a smile on her face.  “Have a good week, Lònaid.”  She waited until he was gone before she let a tear slip down her cheek.

* * * * *

“So, will I finally meet your handsome young man?” the elderly High Priestess inquired of her apprentice, setting a small plate of cookies on her table.

“No, Mother,” Suzanne replied, lowering her eyes.  “He refused me yet again.”

The old woman paused, studying the upset younger woman.  “You are displeased.”

“I shouldn’t be,” Suzanne whispered to the table, her fists clenching and bitterness coating her throat.  _Why?  Why?  Am I not good enough for you, Lònaid?_   “He’s not Wicca, I can’t expect him to understand what this means to me.”

The High Priestess sat at her table, sipping her cup of tea.  “My Bertram was not Wicca when I met him,” she observed, swirling her cup as her apprentice looked up.  “It took me many years to bring him home and years more before he was willing to become our High Priest.  But you must decide your path, not I.”

Suzanne nodded slowly, seeing the grief on her mentor’s face.  Their High Priest had died not long after Midwinter of congestive heart failure.  Though the High Priestess led her coven just as she always had, there was a tiredness to her that had not been there before her husband’s death.  Suzanne knew her mentor hoped to retire once she herself was fully trained and initiated into their coven’s third circle.  Suzanne, in her turn, had hoped Lònaid would make the journey beside her, serving as her High Priest, much as Bertram had served her mentor.

“Please, Mother, advise me,” Suzanne begged looking up at the High Priestess.

The wizened woman considered the younger for some minutes, studying her and weighing the desperation she could see.  Finally she proposed, “Perhaps we should seek the Goddess’s wisdom, my young apprentice.”

“Yes,” Suzanne breathed, following her mentor into the house’s interior, where the High Priestess’ statues of the Horned God and the Triple Goddess were on display.

The old woman shuffled to the opposite wall, taking down an owl statue, a pristine blue candle, and a jar of lotus oil.  Together, the two women laid down the magical circle, stepping inside.  Suzanne took the lead, calling on the elements and the Gods, her beat and intonation flawless.  As her mentor set the owl statue down next to the candle, Suzanne knelt before it, explaining her problem, her wishes, and her desires to the Goddess’s icon.

When her flow of words ended, Suzanne lit the candle and called upon the Goddess Athena, pleading for her aid and wisdom.  She listened and nearly gasped as a fully formed plan filled her mind; the Goddess had anticipated her call for aid!  The Goddess ordered her to write down other words and phrases, to hide Her plan and intentions from the elderly crone who no longer served Her.  It took an effort to suppress the rage that filled her veins at the idea that her mentor no longer served the Gods, but Suzanne managed.  When the Goddess’s instructions ceased, Suzanne ended the ritual, thanking the Gods, parting with the elements, and extinguishing the candle.

She helped her mentor back to her feet, smiling; within, her insides writhed with a foreign rage – the Goddess’s anger at Her treacherous former High Priestess.  “Well, my apprentice,” the old woman remarked, “It seems you have much to ponder.”

“Yes, Mother,” Suzanne replied.  “I will see you tonight.”

The High Priestess beamed at her and showed her to the door.  But before Suzanne could step out, her mentor laid a hand on her arm.  “My dear, do not give up on your young man,” the old woman counseled.  “Give him time and do not press him for an answer.  There will be other times, other rituals.  If you force his hand now, you may not like the results.”

Suzanne bowed her head in acknowledgement, but did not reply.  As she turned towards her parked car, she felt the Goddess’s power fill her.  Another part of her soul protested, fighting against the alien thrill dancing up her spine.

* * * * *

Alone in her home, Suzanne carefully arranged everything she needed, consulting the notes she’d written down in her car once she was away from the old crone’s house.  Slowly, every part of the Goddess’s plan was put into place, ready to be used.  There was one item on the list that Suzanne hesitated at, biting her lip anxiously.  The Goddess had been very specific, but she didn’t _have_ that particular item.

Even as she was thinking that, her doorbell rang.  She hurried to the door, surprised when there was no one outside.  Cautious, she opened the door and spied a package on the front step.  Though she was wary, she brought it inside and opened it up to see the final piece of the Goddess’s plan.  Looking upwards, Suzanne thanked the Goddess for Her provision, then lifted the item out of its packaging to put it in place.

When she was finished, Suzanne fingered her phone, considering what she could say to Lònaid.  A thought nudged at her, urging her to go to the police station and speak Lònaid in person.  _Yes._   If she could give him an acceptable explanation, perhaps she might convince him to come to the ritual without the Goddess’s intervention.  She just had to make sure he understood _why_ it was so important that he come to the ritual.

With that happy thought, she snatched up her keys and hurried to her car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no expert, so take all the Wiccan stuff with hefty dose of salt. I did do some Internet research, but they do say that 112% of Internet stats are made up. The ritual is from a website called pagangate.


	3. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Suzanne pulled up near the station and hunted for a convenient parking place.  She would need time to speak to Lònaid and persuade him to come with her.  Just as she spotted a likely spot, she also spied Lònaid walking out of the station, his partner beside him.  The two men were laughing and bantering back and forth, trading playful shoves as they headed for Lònaid’s car.

Her fists clenched around the steering wheel and she glared at the man striding alongside _her_ mate, teasing and joking with Lònaid as if he hadn’t a care in the world.  _He_ hadn’t had to put Lònaid back together, grieving with him after he’d lost his best friend.  _He_ hadn’t helped Lònaid avenge his friend, hadn’t helped Lònaid plot and plan, though Suzanne had chafed at Lònaid’s refusal to simply kill his friend’s murderer.  No, he’d simply come in after the fact, demanding Lònaid’s loyalty as if it was his rightful due and reaping the rewards of Suzanne’s hard work and sacrifice.

* * * * *

_“Why Lònaid, why leave him alive?” Suzanne demanded angrily.  “He is a monster, a killer who enjoys his craft.  We should not let him harm anyone else.”_

_Lònaid shook his head.  “No, I can’t,” he replied, his voice half-dead, fresh grief draping his entire body.  “I promised I’d make things right.”  His eyes followed the man they were watching, narrowing with grief and fury.  “I gotta keep that promise, Suze.”_

_Suzanne bristled, more at his refusal to see revenge as a legitimate course of action than his use of a nickname for her.  “So what will you do instead?” she hissed.  “Arrest him?  Watch as your case against him is shredded by his hired mouth and all your work turns to ash?  He is untouchable; you_ know _that.”_

_Lònaid turned towards her, a fierce glint in his eyes.  “Not if we catch him in the act, Suze,” he told her, his grin wild and just a bit deranged.  “We’re gonna follow him and we’re gonna watch him and when we got what we need, I’ll bring him down myself.”_

_“Yourself?” she questioned tartly, crossing her arms._

_“I’m the cop,” he returned, his eyes glittering.  “I can make the arrest.”_

_She hated it, but, reluctantly, she inclined her head in acquiescence._

* * * * *

Suzanne’s eyes misted and she wiped a tear away, remembering the night she’d first met Lònaid, each of them set up by mutual friends for a blind date.  He’d been so bright and hopeful, eager to prove himself in his job and gain his family’s respect.

* * * * *

_Suzanne was sitting in a booth, fuming that her coven member hadn’t shown up as promised, when a man cleared his throat, drawing her attention upwards and to her right.  “Uh, hi,” he began, running a hand through his hair.  “This may sound odd, but are you waiting for someone?”_

_She leaned back surveying the sheepish gray-eyed man with a critical eye.  “Maybe.  Why?”_

_He cleared his throat, looking even more awkward.  “Um, me too,” he admitted, jerking his thumb at another table.  “But they haven’t shown up and then I saw your book.”  He pointed to it, a dog-eared copy of_ War and Peace _._

_“And?” Suzanne pressed, getting an uncomfortable feeling.  Her coven member had_ insisted _she bring_ that _particular book._

_The stranger looked away, then pulled out another copy of the same book.  “My friend lent this to me,” he explained to the next table.  “Asked me to bring it tonight.”_

_Suzanne stared at the book, then glanced at her own.  Green eyes looked up into embarrassed gray.  “I,” Suzanne declared, “am going to kill him.”  She gestured to the seat across from her._

_He sat down, his grin turning amused.  “Might not want to admit that to a cop,” he advised playfully.  “I could get arrested for conspiracy, you know.”_

_She laughed with delight at his joke.  “Maybe I won’t then,” she decided, leaning forward.  “So, do we have a date or do we spite our friends?”_

_He considered her proposal.  “Well, we’re both here,” he pointed out.  “And if you stick to the hypothetical, I might even have a few ideas for you.”_

_“I can do that,” Suzanne agreed.  “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”_

_He grinned at her again._

* * * * *

Suzanne followed Lònaid as he drove his unmarked police car, her anger giving her strength and focus.  He’d taught her how to tail another car and spot a tail back when she’d been helping him avenge his friend and she put those skills to use now, hanging far enough back to watch his movements, but not so far back that she lost him.

* * * * *

_“So you’re Wiccan?” Lònaid asked, curiosity shining in his eyes.  “What is that, anyway?”_

_Suzanne studied him, her expression tight.  This was why she didn’t date more often.  The men in her coven were well enough, but none of them interested her.  Unfortunately, many of the men she’d met_ outside _the coven were outright hostile towards her religion.  Oh, they were perfectly willing to warm her bed, but they had no respect for_ her _, something she despised.  “Some people call it Neo-Paganism,” she finally replied, her eyes hooded._

_He frowned, but more in a ‘I’m-puzzling-this-out’ than a ‘I’m-offended-by-what-you-just-said’ fashion.  “Multiple gods?” he finally questioned, an endearing quirk in the way his forehead was scrunched in thought._

_“And Goddesses,” Suzanna confirmed, her interest spiking at the half-wary, half-intrigued look on his face.  “My coven calls them the Horned God and the Triple Goddess.”_

_“Triple?  So there’s three of them?”_

_She couldn’t quite help her soft laugh.  “No, it has to do with the moon,” she explained.  “Waxing, waning, and full.  We also call Her aspects the Maiden, Mother, and Crone.”  She hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to know more?”_

_He leaned forward and one shoulder hiked in a shrug.  “Why not?”_

_Smiling, she launched into a far more detailed explanation of Wicca and even invited him to come to her coven’s next meeting, an offer he politely declined.  It wasn’t until after he’d dropped her off at home that she realized he’d said almost nothing about himself aside from the fact that he was a cop._

* * * * *

It hadn’t been until after he got his revenge that things had changed, ever so subtly, between them.  Where before he’d been curious and intrigued, now he prowled around her customs and rituals like a cat expecting to be doused in cold water.  His questions, particularly about the more esoteric parts of Wicca, became more direct, more detailed.  At first she’d thought he’d joined a coven of his own, but when she asked, he shuddered, shaken his head fiercely, and refused to say anything more that evening.

And that partner of his had made things even _worse_ , she was sure of it; it _had_ to be _him_ who’d told Lònaid about Wicca, about their rituals and rites.  She never heard of a Wicca who’d turned against their coven, but Lònaid’s partner _had_ to be such a one.  There was no other way Lònaid could have discovered such information on his own.

* * * * *

_“Lònaid, is something wrong?” Suzanne asked, worried about her mate; she rested both hands on his arm, looking up at him anxiously.  “You’ve been quiet all evening.”_

_He shrugged, but looked at her, pain in his eyes.  “A friend of my brother’s ran into some trouble a couple days ago, that’s all.”_

_Snuggling closer, Suzanne inquired, “Is there something I can do to help?  Or my coven?”_

_“Nah, I think my brother’s team has it under control,” Lònaid reassured her, but there was doubt in his eyes, as though he wasn’t completely sure of his own words.  But far more than that was the wary light he always sported these days when she brought up her coven.  They were slowly drifting apart and she had no idea how to stop it, how to fix it.  She couldn’t let him go; he was too important to her now; but she didn’t know what was wrong.  It was that partner of his, but Lònaid had refused to look for a new one when she’d suggested it, recoiling and giving her an angry glare._

_Brightening his gaze, Lònaid suggested, “There must be something on we can mock.”_

_Suzanne laughed and rose to fetch her TV remote.  “I’m sure there is,” she replied, sitting down in his lap.  He grunted and adjusted himself to support her better.  “I’m sure there is, Lònaid.”_

_She would find a way to get_ her _Lònaid back and soon._

* * * * *

Suzanne peeked around the corner of a building; Lònaid had parked his car, forcing her to find her own hasty spot before hurrying after the two men.  She frowned when all she saw was an old, out of order phone booth.  Surely she hadn’t been _that_ far behind the two men!  Then again, it _had_ taken her longer than she’d hoped to find a parking spot.  Suzanne inspected the area, searching for even a hint of her mate, then sighed and headed back to her car.

If she couldn’t talk to Lònaid, she’d just have to invite him to lunch and put the Goddess’s plan in action.  Regret licked at her, her heart crying out in objection, then the Goddess’s power filled her again, Her rage sweeping over all the empty places in her heart.  A sharp inhale allowed Suzanne to soar on that power, accepting Her Will and Her Command.  No more.  He would be hers or he would be the Goddess’s.


	4. Green-Eyed Monster

Once back at her home, she pulled out her phone and sent Lònaid a text message.

LUNCH TODAY?  
SINCE YOU’RE  
WORKING LATE ALL WEEK?

She paced impatiently until her phone buzzed.

WHERE?

MY HOUSE.

A hesitation on his end.

I’M DOWNTOWN.

Suzanne tapped her chin.  She’d already known that, so she’d had time to think of an answer.

I DON’T MIND IF YOU CAN’T STAY LONG,  
BUT I WANTED TO ASK YOU SOMETHING.

WHAT?

She smiled, shaking her head.

IN PERSON.

It took a long, painful minute to get a response; Suzanne gritted her teeth.

CAN STAY 30.

THAT’S PERFECT.  
I’LL HAVE YOUR FAVORITE.

THANKS.

She lowered her phone, her smile turning dark.

* * * * *

When Lònaid knocked on her door, she was surprised to see his car wasn’t in her driveway.  She opened the door, letting him in.  “Where’s your car?” she asked curiously.

He shrugged.  “Parking downtown is a _pain_ today, so I left a little early, caught the bus.”

“You won’t get in trouble?” Suzanne questioned, leading him into her kitchen.

Lònaid settled himself on a bar stool, grabbing the already full glass of soda.  “Nope, I’m covered,” he reassured her.  He sighed in relief as he drained half the glass.  “Thanks Suze, that really hits the spot.”

Suzanne smiled brightly, pushing her homemade lasagna towards him.  “It is pretty hot out there,” she commiserated.  “Did you have to walk far?”

“Wasn’t too bad,” Lònaid reassured her as she switched to her smaller and shorter kitchen table.  When she waved for him to join her, he did so, yelping in surprise as his phone tumbled free from his belt; she snatched it before it could hit the floor.  “Thanks,” he remarked, sitting across from her.  “My Sarge would kill me if I had to replace that thing.”

Suzanne regarded the phone, surprised.  It didn’t look all that fancy, but she supposed it was all in the programming.  With a shrug, she placed it on the table and dug into the salad she’d made for herself.

He cleared his throat and she looked up.  “You said you wanted to talk about something?”

“Eat first,” she chided.  Pointing to his drink, she added, “And drink up.  I don’t want you fainting from heatstroke on your way back to work.”

Lònaid saluted her with the drink, his grin rather boyish.  “Yes, ma’am.”  He drank the rest of his soda, then tucked into the lasagna.

When he’d eaten and drunk most of his meal, Suzanne leaned forward.  “Good day so far?”

Tossing her a wink, Lónaid replied, “Well, got to see you twice in one day.”  A grin spread across his face.  “That makes it a great day.”

Her heart fluttered anew, her belly twisting with hidden knowledge.  She smiled back, a hesitation checking her first words.  “I wanted to ask…”  Suzanne paused, kneading her hands together.  “I know…I know what you said about not wanting to do the _ritual_ , but will you come meet my mentor?”

Caught off guard, Lónaid paused in the middle of nibbling on the last of the lasagna.  “Your mentor?  Is that who you’re taking over for?”  Curiosity, so like their early days, with none of the wariness she’d come to expect.

“Yes,” Suzanna confirmed.  Sorrow shone.  “I think I told you about her husband.”

He nodded somberly.  “A heart attack?”

Swallowing hard, she nodded.  “We…we knew it was coming.”  They had; he’d been so _sick_ at the end, suffering and longing for release.

“Your mentor doesn’t have the heart for it anymore?” Lónaid asked, sympathy writ large.  Then he cocked his head to the side.  “Wait…was your mentor’s husband your High Priest?  Is _that_ why you want me at this ritual thing?”

Hope soared, obliterating the Goddess’s rage within her.  He _understood_ , he would _come_ , and everything would be perfect once more.  Heart full, she beamed at him.  “You’ll come?”

Lónaid gazed down at his plate, a quirk appearing between his brows as he considered.  Emotions raced across his face, too fast to read.  When he looked up, a stray lock of hair fell in his eyes.  “Maybe I can meet your mentor another time?” he offered.

Disbelief pulsed.  “Another time?” she echoed, voice dull.

One shoulder lifted in a brief shrug.  “Yeah.  I’d like to meet her; she sounds like a really great lady; but tonight should be your night, Suze.”  A lopsided grin.  “Don’t want to steal your thunder.”

The Goddess’s rage pumped through her veins.  He _knew_ , that partner of his had _told_ him.  Even if he _only_ came to meet her mentor, once he was _there_ , it would be easy to sweep him up and talk him into _joining_ them.  Lónaid could fend _her_ off easily enough; he would not find it so easy once he was surrounded by her coven.  Once her mother-by-spirit spoke to him…but no.  Her own grief mixed with the Goddess’s righteous fury at the rejection of one of Her daughters.

One last flicker of hope gleamed.  One last chance.  “Lónaid, why?  I _want_ you to come, you wouldn’t be stealing _anything_.”  Anger flared.  “Is it your partner?  Is _he_ why you won’t come?”

Wary caution flashed in gray eyes.  “Leave him out of this.  It’s _my_ decision; I didn’t even tell him about your ritual tonight.”

“He’s Wiccan, isn’t he?  He _told_ you about our rituals.”

One hand smacked the table, stopping her.  “Suze.  Stop.  He’s not Wiccan; I’m just not interested in coming tonight.  Maybe another time.”

Inwardly, she seethed.  How _dare_ Lónaid _lie_ to her?  His partner _was_ Wiccan, he _had_ to be.  There was _no_ other way Lónaid could’ve found out _that_ much about Wicca and their magical rituals.  He shifted uncomfortably, sensing her upset, picking at the leftovers on his plate.  His movements began to slow and she smiled to herself.  When he started nodding and jerking his head, she rose and pulled his plate away.  Confused gray eyes lifted to her and she gently stroked his head, smiling in satisfaction as he leaned into her touch.  She leaned down, close to his ear, and whispered, “Come with me tonight, Lònaid.”

“Said ‘no’,” he mumbled, struggling to move.

Suzanne hushed him, her green eyes gleaming.  “Please Lònaid, for your own sake, there is no going back now.”  She stroked his hair a moment longer.  “Come with me, Lònaid.”

For one precious second, full awareness blazed in his eyes, betrayal and dismay staring her in the face.  “No,” he managed, then he slumped, surrendering to the drugs she’d put in his food and drink.

Bitterness filled her as she stared at him in disbelief.  She’d offered him everything and he’d turned it down without so much as a second glance.  The Goddess had warned her that this would be his choice, but she’d hoped so much that he would prove Her wrong.

“So, my love,” she whispered, “You have made your choice.”  Green eyes hardened.  “And now I have made mine.”  Suzanne stepped forward, swiftly locating his gun and yanking it from its holster.  Grimly, she checked it, evaluating her first move and letting her hopes drain away.  And when her hope was gone, all that was left in her heart was hate and bitterness.

Studying his body, she snorted.  Let him lay there, suffering.  It was only just after the way he’d used her, torn her heart apart with his callous disregard for her people and her ways.  A possible complication occurred to her and she snatched up his cell phone, thumbing the power button.  She snorted again at Lònaid’s total _lack_ of security for his phone; the phone opened for her without even a trace of hesitation.

Rapidly, she flicked to his text messaging and found his partner’s number.  Considering, she smirked.

SUZE ASKED ME TO STAY LONGER.  
COVER FOR ME?

YOU DOG.  
BRING SOME LEFTOVERS FOR ME.

Suzanne arched a brow, then growled softly.

ALL MINE, PARTNER.

SPOILSPORT.  
YOUR GIRL MAKES THE BEST LASAGNA.

Fury boiled.  How _dare_ Lònaid give his partner anything she made for _him_?  She forced herself to type one last message.

SEE YOU LATER, PARTNER.

COPY.

She dropped the phone and _his_ gun onto the table as if they were burning her hands, then whirled towards Lònaid.  “You gave him my best _lasagna?!?_ ” she shrieked at his unconscious form.  Rage erupted and she shoved him off the chair and onto the floor before kicking him, violently.  “He took you away from me and you gave him _my food_?”

The kicks fell on his unconscious body until her rage was spent and she was panting with exertion.  The Goddess’s power flowed into her, easing her muscles and restoring spent reserves.  Strength filled her, racing through her veins, embracing her as her mate _should_ have.  Suzanne smiled, the Goddess’s reassurance and guidance murmuring within her heart.  Then she dragged her _treacherous_ mate out of the kitchen and into the living room, hefting him up on the couch where they’d spent so many evenings together.  Walking back to the kitchen, she retrieved his phone and took it out to Lònaid.  Glancing around, she considered the device, then whirled and hurled his phone at her TV, shattering the TV’s screen.  But when she picked up the phone, it was still working.  Rage boiled again and she shrieked in fury, flinging the phone at her TV again.  This time, both electronics fell to the floor; glass flew everywhere.  The enraged woman destroyed the entire room, dashing books to the floor without a care, slamming her idols down on glass tables, and breaking the stone statues with repeated and fierce blows against the wooden table frames.

When she was finally done, the room looked as if a hurricane had gone through it, with only the couch where Lònaid lay untouched.  But rather than feeling exhausted and depleted, more energy filled her, as though each breath brought more of Her strength, more of Her wisdom and guidance.  Summoning every bit of Her blessing, Suzanne went behind the couch and tipped it up, dumping Lònaid on the floor.  Then she found a knife and slashed the cushions, dumping the contents all over the unconscious man.  Without any emotion whatsoever, she found one of her few undamaged idols and brought it over to Lònaid.  Over and over again, she curled Lònaid’s hands into fists and slammed fist and idol together, drawing blood and leaving Lònaid’s hands a bloody mess.  With sufficient blood, she scattered it around the room, doing her best to make it look as if the damage was all Lònaid’s fault.

Contemptuous, she spat on Lònaid, cursing him in the Goddess’s name.  “Everything you took from me,” she hissed, “I will take from you.”  She rose, walking back into the kitchen.  Icy calm, she picked up his gun in her right hand and checked it again.

With her left hand, she pulled out her cell phone and swiftly dialed, raising the phone to her ear.  “911, what is your emergency?”

Her voice turned trembly.  “It’s my boyfriend,” she whispered, hastily, furtively.  “He just stormed into my house and pulled a gun on me.”

“Ma’am, are you in a safe location?”

Suzanne whimpered.  “He told me to stay in the kitchen,” she murmured.  “He said he’d kill me if I moved.”

“Ma’am, I need you to leave the house and tell me your address,” the operator instructed.

Suzanne allowed a tiny cry.  “I can’t,” she wailed as quietly as she could.  “He’s in the living room; he’ll _see_ me.”

“Can you get to your bathroom and lock the door?”

Hope entered her voice.  “Yes,” she gasped, “I think can I can do that.”  She made a show of tiptoeing towards the door, then let out another gasp, right before she screamed in terror and fired Lònaid’s gun into the ceiling.  She hurled her cell phone at the floor, smiling triumphantly as it shattered.  Then she hurried out of the room to set up the next part of Her plan.

* * * * *

The gunshot woke him and he struggled to move, panicking when his body refused to obey him.  It felt like his entire body was asleep, but his mind was awake – and helpless.  His chest felt compressed, as if he couldn’t get quite enough air, and he knew, in a vague, distant sort of way, that he was in trouble – big trouble.  Why?  Why would she do this?  He’d never hurt her, never lashed out at her beliefs, even as his wariness of them grew.  All he’d done was refuse to join her coven.  Surely that wasn’t reason enough to do _this_ , whatever this was.

His hands ached, as if he’d been in a fight, but he knew he hadn’t been.  Had Suzanne done something while he was out?  And why did it feel like he was lying on her carpet?  Again, he struggled to move, but his vision grayed, forcing him to simply lay on the carpet, like a lump.  Awareness was slippery, there one second and gone the next; his mind was awake, but his thinking was foggy, each thought fought through murk and gloom to surface.  He couldn’t tell how much time was passing since all he could see was her carpet and a shard of glass right next to his face.  He couldn’t hear her in the room, but he was sure she’d be back and she had his gun; ironic that…she was going to kill him with his own gun.

He was tempted to just give in, but the stubborn parts of his soul refused to let him, screaming that he couldn’t just _lie_ there and wait to die.  His fingers…maybe if he started small…  It was worth a shot, especially since he was positive Suzanne didn’t intend for him to survive whatever she’d planned.  As he strained to move his fingers, to get his body’s dead weight to respond, he was left to wonder what he’d done wrong.  And if he would survive the fallout.

_Someone help me.  Please.  I don’t wanna die._


	5. Not Asking For Flowers

“Team One, hot call,” Winnie yelled, interrupting the workout session.  The team hustled for their gear, shedding workout clothes in favor of uniforms, bullet-proof vests and equipment vests sliding in place on top.  Comms were connected, tested, and the day’s chosen drivers darted for the garage to get the trucks started.

“Winnie, what do we got?” Ed barked, adjusting a stubborn strap on his equipment vest as he descended on the dispatcher’s desk.

“Domestic violence call,” Winnie reported.  “Woman called 911, said her boyfriend was holding her hostage in her own home.  Operator was trying to get her to a safe place when she screamed and dropped the phone.  Before the call disconnected, the operator heard a gunshot.”

“Address?” the Boss demanded.

“Coming your way,” Winnie promised as the two men headed for the garage.

* * * * *

The four trucks screamed through the streets, forcing all the other traffic out of their way.  “Winnie, does this address have a history?” Lou asked as he drove.

“Nothing,” Winnie informed the team.  “Same owner for the last thirteen years.”

“Name?” Jules queried.

“Suzanne Powers.  It’s a quiet neighborhood; the most common crime appears to be vandalism.”

“Until today,” Spike muttered.

The Sarge’s voice came on the comm.  “Winnie, have the uniforms cordon off the scene and start interviewing the neighbors, see if they know who this boyfriend is and what troubles these two have been having of late.”

“Copy,” Winnie acknowledged.

“Jules, if we can establish contact with the hostage, I want you talking to her.”

Jules picked up her boss’s train of thought.  “She’s been abused and threatened by a man she trusts, give her a sympathetic voice to talk to.”

“Exactly,” Parker confirmed.  “Eddie?”

“Let’s wait till we get on scene,” Ed recommended, “Spike, when you get a chance, pull up this house’s blueprints so we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Negative,” the Sergeant unexpectedly broke in.  “Lou, you do that; I want Spike in the field, talking to the neighbors.”

Though Ed didn’t want to challenge his superior, he was confused.  “Boss?”

In the middle truck, Greg flexed his hands around his steering wheel, not completely sure himself of his own decision, but his gut was telling him it was the right call.  Instead of answering Ed, he told his team, “Let’s keep the peace.”

* * * * *

By the time they arrived, the uniforms had finished cordoning off the area and begun interviewing the crowd of worried neighbors.  One uniform guided Team One’s trucks to the best spot, then moved to talk to Sergeant Parker as Team One started regrouping; Ed handed out on-scene assignments as Lou headed for the Command Truck and started looking for information on their subject and his hostage.

“Any more shots?” Parker asked the uniform, adjusting his binder to a slightly better writing position.

“No, sir,” the uniform replied.  “We’re running all the plates on this block, but so far, they’re all coming back as belonging to the homeowners.”

Parker nodded, adding that to the mix.  “Any chance the boyfriend is from this neighborhood?”

The uniform shook his head.  “The next-door neighbor’s seen his car before, says he usually drives it here.”

Another note was scrawled.  “Didn’t drive it here today,” the Sergeant mused to himself.  “Where is this neighbor?  I’d like to talk to them.”

The uniform turned, pointing at a middle-aged woman who was wearing a chef’s apron that had clearly been picked out for her by a child; printed across the front were the words: _Grandma’s my favorite cook!_   Her hair was gray and tied in a neat bun, her hands were dusted with flour, and Parker could see smudges of what looked like chocolate on her face.

He nodded to the uniform, then strode to the neighbor, extending his hand.  “Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Greg Parker, can you tell me about your neighbor and her boyfriend?”

“Certainly, officer,” the woman replied as she shook his hand, her smile generous in spite of the worry in her eyes.

Parker adjusted his binder and clicked his pen.  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Alice Younger,” the neighbor informed him, smiling at the arched brow the Sergeant couldn’t quite help.  “Much more apt in my earlier years than it is now, I do admit,” she chuckled.  Glancing towards the house at the center of the chaos, she sighed.  “Young Suzanne moved in, oh, my, it must be more than ten years ago now.  Quiet, keeps to herself, always sends me a _lovely_ thank you card for my Christmas cookies.”

“And her boyfriend?” the Sergeant pressed.

“I met him once, with her,” Alice remarked.  “One of those tall, dark, and handsome types, with a rather dry sense of humor.  I quite liked him.  And he’s got better manners than most.”  Parker cocked his head in silent question.  “Always referred to me as ‘ma’am’ or ‘missus’ and the night I met him, I overheard Suzanne inviting him to move in.  He turned her down.”

“So he doesn’t live in the neighborhood?” the Sergeant clarified.

“Oh, heavens, no.  Suzanne told me they first met in a bit of a blind date sort of thing, but they hit it off very well.”

Frowning, Parker inquired, “Any arguments between them?  Do you know the boyfriend’s name?”

“I don’t know his name, I’m afraid,” Alice began, absently kneading her hands.  “Suzanne always called him by a pet name of hers, Lon-something-or-other.”

Thoughtful, the older woman regarded Powers’ home, watching curiously as Team One’s members scouted the exterior of the home.  Over his comm, Parker could hear Eddie rapping out orders, the rest of his team reporting in.  The doors, it seemed, were all locked, though Lou had yet to find any sort of electronic home security system.

“I never heard any arguments, officer,” Alice continued, drawing the Sergeant’s gaze, “But I imagine they _did_ have their share.”

“And why is that?”

“Suzanne is a sweet girl, but she has a set of rather odd beliefs.”

“Such as?”

“Pagan worship,” Alice replied flatly.  “Her boyfriend was curious, of course, but I got the feeling that’s as far as it went.  And if either of them was unhappy about that, it was Suzanne, not him.  I think he was perfectly happy to let her believe what she wanted, so long as she didn’t drag him in.”

Parker considered the woman, thinking hard.  If the neighbor was right about the boyfriend, then why had he snapped and gone after his girlfriend?  “Have they been fairly steady, do you know?” the Sergeant inquired.

Alice considered that.  “They’re quite steady,” she allowed.  “We all thought they’d break up after his best friend died, but somehow, they came through it.”  Sharp dark eyes shifted to Parker.  “I did wonder if he was beginning to think about moving on, but it’s hard to be sure.”

“When did his friend die, do you know?”

“Oh, my,” Alice murmured, almost to herself.  “Last year, I believe,” she replied after thinking a minute or two.  “That was the first time I ever saw his car here all night; they were practically inseparable for almost two months, but then he found his feet again.  Suzanne, poor dear, said she was glad of it when we talked a few weeks ago, but I’m not sure she was quite as pleased as she let on.”

“No?”

Alice shook her head.  “Quiet, polite, but she has a buried streak, if you know what I mean, officer.  The sort that still believes in an eye for an eye.  I suppose it’s not surprising that she found someone a bit too much like herself.”  Sadly, she tisked.

Parker nodded, but shifted focus, just a bit.  “How has their relationship been lately, Mrs. Younger?”

The plump woman frowned as she thought.  “Well,” she began slowly, “He hasn’t been over here nearly as much as he used to be.”  Greg frowned at that himself.  “Suzanne said his job was keeping him hopping, that it was just a phase.  She was certain he would have a more flexible schedule soon.  I do know the poor dear was hoping he’d get them tickets to a play soon.  Shakespeare.”

Greg blinked, but dutifully wrote the information down.  “Anything else you can remember about him?”

Alice shook her head regretfully.  “I’m afraid that’s all I know about _him_ , officer.”  Adjusting her apron, she glanced back towards her house.  “I’d be happy to help more if I can, officer, but I do have a batch in the oven right now…”

Parker gave her a slight chuckle.  “We’ll let you know if we need anything more,” he reassured her.  “Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

As soon as the woman was gone, Spike quipped, “Think she’ll have any extras in that batch for us, Boss?”

Mock-stern, the Sergeant demanded, “Have you _earned_ them, Constable Scarlatti?”

Spike pouted as his teammates laughed at him.  Lou broke in.  “Sarge, 911 operator says Suzanne’s cell phone is dead, but her house has a landline.”

Parker whistled as he walked towards the Command Truck.  “Old school.  Ed, how are we looking?”

“We’re as set up as we can be, Boss,” Ed reported.  “Sam’s up on the roof, looking for a position, but no luck so far.  Wordy, Spike, and I are trying to narrow down an entry strategy.”

“I’ve got blueprints,” Lou announced.  “Sending them out now.”

Greg’s phone beeped as he reached the Command Truck; he nodded to his three constables and yanked the door open, climbing up into the interior to talk with Jules and Lou.  He surveyed Lou’s computer screen, nodding to himself, then turned to Jules.  “Jules?”

“On it, Boss,” Jules agreed, picking up the Command Truck’s phone.

As she began to dial, Lou leaned forward to inform the auto-transcriptor, “12:49 PM, contact initiated with subject residence.”

The team fell silent as the phone rang, once, twice, three times.  Then it was picked up.  “Hello?”  Fear rang in the woman’s voice and she spoke so softly that Greg waved for Lou to increase the call’s volume.

“Suzanne?  My name is Jules; I’m with the Police Strategic Response Unit,” Jules introduced.  “Are you all right, Suzanne?”

“Yeah.”  But the word shook and Jules shook her head at her Sergeant.  He nodded once in agreement.

“Suzanne, we’re here to help,” Jules informed the frightened woman.  “Can you tell me where you are?”

The barest whisper.  “I’m in the bathroom.  That’s…that’s right, right?”

“Yes,” Jules confirmed, “That’s very good, Suzanne.”  She paused, then asked, “Suzanne, can you tell me where your boyfriend is?”

* * * * *

“Please, please,” Suzanne begged.  “He’s coming.  Please help me.”

She clutched a phone to her ear as she knelt in the middle of her bathroom.  In her other hand was a bungee cord tied to her bathroom door; there was another bungee cord on the opposite side of the door, tied to another door in her hallway.  Outside the small room, the Goddess’s gift sat, a soft hiss of noise coming from the speakers as the recording inside began to run.  When Suzanne heard yelling come from outside, she yanked on the bungee cord, making the door bang in its frame as it was pulled in two directions.

“Suzanne, don’t make me come in there!” a male voice roared, his yell punctuated with her strongest yank yet, producing a heavy _thud_.

* * * * *

Sirens.  He could hear sirens.  Help.  Gasping, he tried fruitlessly to move his arms, lift his head, or yell.  But his body was largely unresponsive and his frantic cries for help never left his head.  Somehow, he managed to flop once, lifting himself enough to spot his phone, lying in the middle of a pool of broken glass and razor sharp electronic parts.

He redoubled his efforts to move his fingers, feeling them twitch, ever so slightly.  If he could _just_ reach his phone, he might survive this…

* * * * *

“Suzanne,” the female cop in the woman’s ear urged, “Tell me who he is.”

“I _can’t!_ ” Suzanne sobbed, clutching the phone even harder.  “He’ll _kill_ me.”

“I promise he won’t,” the cop replied.  “We will protect you, Suzanne, but we need to know who he is.”

“No, no,” the woman wailed.  “Once you know, you’ll side with _him_.”

“Suzanne, open this door!”

“Suzanne,” the female cop countered, “I promise we won’t.  I promise we will protect you, no matter _who_ he is.”  The cop hesitated.  “Now, will you _please_ tell me who he is?”

The woman’s head shook frantically, even as she cringed away from her bathroom door.  Fiercely, she yanked even harder on the bungee cord and spared a glance at Lònaid’s gun.  The timing had to be _just_ right.  The yells from outside were getting louder, the door was bouncing wildly.  “No, no, no,” she moaned, wondering how long the bungee cords would last.  “You won’t believe me.”  A thrill danced up her spine, the Goddess soothing her anxiety and urging her to be ready.  Unconsciously, she shifted, pausing in her yanking on the bungee cords to pick up Lónaid’s gun.

 “We will,” the cop promised again.

“If I have to come in there!” the male voice threatened, his voice a growl of fury.

 “No, you don’t understand,” Suzanne retorted, a spark of anger running through her voice.  “He’s _like you_.”

The cop hesitated.  “Suzanne, what do you mean?” she pressed.  “What do you mean, he’s ‘like me’?”

“He’s a cop,” Suzanne gasped out, before giving a little scream as the door jumped again.

“Okay, he’s a cop,” the female cop acknowledged.  “That doesn’t change anything, Suzanne.  We’re still going to get you out of this safely, I promise.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”  For a blessed moment, there was silence; Suzanne smiled, a tiny quirk of her lips.  _Now, Lònaid, now you’ll see, far too late._   “Now will you tell me who he is, Suzanne?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Suzanne started to say, “His name’s…”

Her bathroom door, strung between the bungee cords and not exactly in the best of shape, thudded once last time and broke apart.  Suzanne fired Lònaid’s gun into her bathroom ceiling, screamed, and dropped the phone.

* * * * *

“Shots fired,” Jules gasped.  “Contact terminated by subject.”  Her fists clenched.  Just _one_ more second and she would’ve _had_ the subject’s name.  “Sarge…”

“I heard her, Jules,” Sarge replied, his voice grim.  “Subject is a police officer, team.  Repeat, subject is a police officer.”

* * * * *

He gasped at the gunshot, straining even harder to move, to reach his phone.  Seconds ticked by and a sneer came from above; hope faded as she reached down and picked the phone up from the floor.  He grunted as the phone dropped down again, much closer to him, then he cringed, as much as he could, when she stepped on the phone, grinding it under her heel into the carpet and the broken glass.

She knelt at his head, her face haloed by light, but all he saw in her eyes was bitterness.

“Why?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d managed to say it, if he’d just _thought_ he’d said it.

He couldn’t grimace as she stroked his hair, but he wanted to, badly.  Then she leaned closer.  “You could have been My High Priest,” she murmured, running one hand up and down his throat.  His body was too limp to even shudder.  Then he saw her eyes up close and his throat went dry and tight: instead of green, they were solid black.  “But what _He_ wants, _He_ gets.”  The hand on his throat tightened.  “ _He_ is never fair with Me.”  The hand pulled away from his neck with reluctance.  “But _He_ will not win _this_ time, I promise you that.”

She rose, walking away with eerie laughter floating in her wake.  Fear lent him new strength as he struggled to twist his lump of a body, to reach his phone, lying just out of reach.

_I won’t give up, I won’t._

* * * * *

Miles away, a man hummed along to the radio in his office, bobbing his head as he worked, finishing up the last of the paperwork for a minor case he and his partner had just closed.  It was nice, he reflected, to see things finally evening out and slowing down.  A chance to catch his breath and recharge the ole batteries.  He bit back a snicker at the thought of relating _that_ particular phrase to most of his coworkers.  They’d stare at him as if he’d gone mad, though his partner might laugh.

Abruptly, his phone buzzed with a new message.  Sighing, the man lifted it, wondering if this was his Sergeant, demanding to know where his partner was.  He didn’t mind covering, but he would’ve liked to know beforehand that it was going to be all day instead of just a couple hours.

Then he saw the message and his blood ran cold.

STAY FROSTY.

* * * * *

He gasped, letting himself sag down.  Done.  His vision was swimming, turning gray at the edges, fading in and out; he knew he’d overdone it.  Blood dripped from numerous cuts on his face and hands, slipping down the one finger he’d been able to get working.  Still he smiled, even as glass stung his cheek anew, biting deeper into sensitive skin.

_Checkmate._


	6. Friend in Need

Ed was in the middle of interviewing another neighbor, clearly the local gossip, who was babbling on about the victim being some kind of pagan witch who did heathen rituals every full moon, when his phone rang.  Frowning, he glanced down at it, about to push the power button and silence it, then he paused at the caller ID.  “Spike,” he ordered, drawing the tech over to finish interviewing the gossip.  Then he stepped away and took the call.

“Talk fast, we got a hot call,” he snapped.

“Where are you?” the other demanded.

The team leader hesitated, then shrugged and gave the address.  He immediately pulled the phone away from his ear as the other man cursed, loudly and colorfully.  It took a minute for the swearing to stop, then Ed pulled his phone back down and questioned, mock-lightly, “What was that?”

“I need to talk to Parker.”

“What’s wrong?”

A breath, then, softly, fiercely, “Lane, give the bloody phone to Parker _now_ or I swear I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

Grumbling under his breath, Ed trailed over to his boss and proffered his phone.  “He called me, wants to talk to you.”

One eyebrow arched, but Greg took the phone, lifting it to his ear.  “Parker speaking.”

“Ed said you were at Suzanne’s?”

Greg froze, a horrid sensation in his chest.  “Yes,” he replied, keeping his voice level.

The other man drew in a breath and Greg heard a soft curse over the line.

“You know her?” Greg pressed, noticing the way Eddie snapped to attention.

“Yeah,” came the hoarse reply.  “You could say that.”

“Talk to me,” the Sergeant demanded.

“I got an SOS; my partner’s in there.”

Greg almost dropped Ed’s phone.  _No…_   “Are you saying Suzanne’s boyfriend is…?”

“Yeah.”

There was a single, sharp intake of breath, then, “Get down here as fast as you can,” Greg barked, before thumbing the power button.  “Winnie, officer down.  Repeat, officer down!”

“Copy,” Winnie acknowledged, even as Team One jerked in shock.

“Team One, new deal,” Sergeant Parker growled, his eyes smoldering.  “Suzanne Powers is not the victim; she’s the subject.”

“Sarge?” Jules questioned.

“Who’s the boyfriend?” Wordy asked immediately.

Ed was already shaking his head in denial; Greg tossed his team leader a sympathetic look, then said it.  “Roy Lane.”

The silence on the comm was deafening.

* * * * *

“Talk to us, Giles,” Greg ordered as Giles slid a Team One comm in his ear and snapped the radio to his belt.  Lou offered the Auror a bullet-proof vest as the man quickly tested the comm.

“Suzanne Powers,” Giles reeled off, sliding into the vest.  “Roy’s been dating her since before Jerome died.  He almost broke it off after Jerome’s death, but she wouldn’t walk away.  About half of the work put in the Nick Watson case was actually _hers_ ; Roy taught her a few tricks and the two of them tag-teamed Watson until they got enough evidence.  You guys know the rest.”

Spike whistled.  “They must be pretty close then.”

“What went wrong?” Lou demanded.

Giles hesitated.  “Last I knew, they were, well…  I guess drifting’s the best way to put it.  Not quite as close, but still getting along.  Roy said she was starting to get a little pushy, but nothing violent.  Not like this.”  Greg’s eyebrows went up at the hesitant look on the Auror’s face.  “I don’t know if you guys’ve picked this up yet, but she’s Wiccan.”

Ed growled.  “Local gossip was babbling about her being some kind of pagan witch.”

“That sums it up in a nutshell, Lane,” Giles drawled.  “We keep an eye on the Wiccans; they’re the most likely group of Muggles to figure out magic is real.”  Greg cleared his throat and the Auror shook his head.  “Parker, I said ‘Muggles’ for a reason; they believe in magic and their traditions and beliefs are more like the wizarding world’s.  I don’t think they shun technology, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them do.  Most them _are_ Muggles, but there’s a few Wiccans out there who might be Squib-born or even hedgewizards.”

“Hedgewizards?” Jules inquired.

Greg knew the answer to that question.  “Low magical abilities,” he replied before Onasi could.  “They can cast OWL level spells – if they’re lucky.  Not much more than that, though.  They don’t develop their magic enough to use until later in life, so tech-born hedgewizards don’t get invited to any of the magical schools.”

“Exactly,” Giles confirmed.  “Wiccan hedgewizards can sometimes do a bit more than just OWL level since Wiccans like to use pentangles, but the movement is small enough that the Ministry isn’t too fussed about Wiccan magic.”

“ _Are_ we dealing with a hedgewitch?” Sam pressed.

“Dear Merlin, I hope not,” Giles sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “That would make her even more dangerous.”  His eyes focused on the Command Truck’s computer screen, showing the blueprints of the house.  “I looked into her coven a while back and I know who the current High Priestess is and where she lives,” he offered.  “She might be able to tell you more about Suzanne than I can.”

“You don’t know her that well?” Lou asked in surprise.

Giles’ smile was bitter.  “She hates my guts.”

* * * * *

Ed suppressed a growl as Spike knocked on the elderly High Priestess’s door; he should be _back_ there, planning how best to get his brother out safely, but Greg had benched him.  _Benched him_ and assigned Wordy to be team leader for the rest of the hot call!  And _then_ his Sergeant had sent him and Spike to interview Suzanne’s ‘mentor’.

“Hello?”

Ed blinked; the woman who peered around the door jamb looked like she was one good shock away from a casket.  Her face was a mass of wrinkles and aging, her thin curly hair was solid white, and her skin drooped, hanging loose around her face and arms.  Spike stepped to the side, his eyes intent on hers.  “Mrs. Minchin?”

“Yes?”  Her eyes took in their police uniforms and Ed spied tension in her face.

“I’m Constable Scarlatti, this is Constable Lane,” Spike introduced.  “We need to talk to you about a woman named Suzanne Powers.”  The bomb tech made no mention of Wiccans nor covens, a decision Ed quietly approved.

Alarm shone in Mrs. Minchin’s face and she shuffled to the side, undoing the chain on her door and swinging it open far enough for Spike to grab an edge and take over.  “Come in, come in,” she urged them.

Inside, she walked to a small kitchen, sitting down at the table in a shaky manner that betrayed how frail she was.  Ed swallowed his impatience and gestured for Spike to handle the interview.  He loomed off to the side as Spike joined the elderly lady at her table.  “Has something happened to my daughter?”

“Daughter?” Ed couldn’t help but ask.

Blue eyes that were pale and washed out with age lifted to Ed.  “My daughter in the faith, officers,” Mrs. Minchin clarified.  When neither looked surprised, she glanced between them.  “You already knew,” she whispered, her hands trembling.

Spike reached across, grasping one hand gently.  “We know you’re Wiccan,” he explained.  “And we know you’re the High Priestess for Suzanne’s coven.”  He studied her.  “We need your help, so we can help her.”

Confusion joined fear.  “I don’t understand,” the priestess murmured.

Ed cleared his throat, unable to stand by any longer.  “She’s taken a police officer hostage,” he informed the woman.  “Her boyfriend.”

Softly, Mrs. Minchin gasped, her free hand raising to her mouth.  “Lònaid.”

“Who?” Spike questioned.

For a long moment, the elderly woman looked between the puzzled cops.  “She always called him Lònaid when we spoke,” Mrs. Minchin elaborated, a little strength coming into her voice.  “My daughter is sometimes willful and headstrong; she does not have the patience that old age brings, nor the will to seek it.”

“What do you mean?” Spike prodded, but her eyes had turned distant as she thought.

“My stars,” she whispered suddenly.  “The ritual tonight.”

“What ritual?” Ed demanded, only just keeping his voice from a bark.

For several seconds, the woman did not respond, then she nodded, slowly and sadly, to herself.  “Suzanne is in training to become my coven’s next High Priestess,” Mrs. Minchin explained.  “As part of that process, she is expected to choose our next High Priest as well.”

Ed and Spike traded looks, then Spike ventured, “But wouldn’t he have to be a Wiccan, too?”

“Yes.”  The old woman trembled, then raised a hand and pointed to something next to Ed.  “Young man, could you bring me my tea cup?”

Though he blinked, Ed shifted, picked up the half-empty cup with a small spoon inside, and brought it to the table.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Minchin murmured, stirring the tea inside the cup.  “My daughter wished Lònaid to be _her_ High Priest and spoke of little else, particularly after Lònaid’s friend died.”

“He turned her down,” Spike concluded.

A sorrowful nod.  “Many times, young man,” the priestess confirmed.  “Each time, my daughter grew more bitter; that he would not join her in the faith offended her deeply, as though she felt Lònaid’s refusal meant he did not love her.  I counseled patience, reminded her that my dear Bertram took more years than I care to remember to join me in the faith.  Just today, she sought the Goddess’s guidance in this matter and I thought the matter settled, for now, at least.”

Ed frowned, puzzling over one detail.  “Why Lònaid?” he asked abruptly.

Mrs. Minchin peered up at him.  “What is Lònaid’s true name?” she countered.

“Roy Lane,” Spike offered.

Sorrow shone once more.  “Ah, child,” she whispered, “You think yourself so clever, but you never did respect him, did you?  Little wonder that you doubted his affection so easily.”  The spoon in the tea cup tapped the side as her stirring slowed.  “Lònaid is Gaelic for lane, young man.”  Surprisingly keen blue eyes came up, holding Ed’s, studying his expression.  “He is your brother,” she concluded.

Ed swallowed hard, but didn’t respond.

As the silence hung, the old woman inspected him even more closely, then gasped and turned to Spike, inspecting him as well.  “By the Goddess,” she cried, clutching her chest.

“What?” Spike blurted, trading panicked looks with Ed; had they induced a heart attack in the old woman?

For several seconds, Mrs. Minchin clutched her chest, her eyes wide with shock; the constables were on the cusp of calling an ambulance when she relaxed in her chair.  “I See now why my daughter’s young man would not join her in our coven,” she rasped.

“Why?” Ed questioned, feeling an eerie sense of _something_ in the air around them.  Spike shivered, just as unnerved.

Her smile was sad and knowing.  “The Gods cannot claim what is already spoken for,” she murmured.  “I See a bit, from time to time,” the priestess elaborated, “As my mother did before me.”  Ed fidgeted in his spot; even after over three years in the wizarding world, he still tended to be more than a bit skeptical regarding Seers and prophecy.  “If your brother is like _you_ , young man,” the old woman continued, reaching forward to stir her tea again, “Then my daughter’s plans were doomed from the start.”

As she lifted her cup and sipped from it, the two SRU cops traded puzzled glances, unsure of what their witness was even talking about.  Setting the cup down again with a _clink_ , the priestess regarded her guests.  “You – both of you – have been claimed by a God I have not encountered before.”  One hand raised, tapping her right shoulder.  “I See His marking there, a white lion rampant.”  Her finger pointed to Spike.  “On a green field for you…”  She shifted to Ed.  “And a yellow field for you.”

A wind whipped through the room, ruffling Spike’s hair, skating over Ed’s bald dome, and unnerving them even more.  Curiously, the wind didn’t stir Mrs. Minchin’s hair, nor did she seem to notice it.  Spike swallowed convulsively, wanting nothing more than to be far away from this tiny house with an ancient woman and far too much incense.  “Can you tell us any more about Suzanne?” he inquired, stuffing down his fear.

Mrs. Minchin considered the question thoughtfully.  “She offers others little patience, but despises it when they offer her little in their own turn.  My daughter believes strongly in vengeance and views mercy as a weakness.  I had hoped, in time, to teach her otherwise, but clearly the Gods had other plans for her.”

Sorrow filled the elderly woman’s face, making her look even older and frailer than before.  “Much as I wish otherwise, young men, do not hesitate when you act to stop her.  Any hesitation on your part will grant her an opening to harm Lònaid.”  Tears slipped free as the priestess bowed her head.  “I have given you all that I can.  Return to your fellows and stop my daughter’s unjust vengeance.”  Rheumy eyes shifted and met Ed’s startled gaze.  “If you have the chance, tell my daughter I will be waiting when she makes the journey.”


	7. Don't Leave Me Alone

“Sam, tell me you’ve got a shot,” Wordy ordered, gesturing Sarge into place at the front door; Giles and Lou had the back door while Jules was in the truck, trying to reestablish contact and keep Suzanne occupied as Team One set up for a breach entry.  Ed and Spike were on their way, but odds were they wouldn’t make it back in time.

“Negative,” Sam growled, frustration reeking in his voice.  “Do we even know which room Roy’s in?”

“Living room,” Jules called from the truck.  “That’s where his cell is anyway.  Sarge, she’s not picking up; I think she’s trying to make it look like Roy’s keeping her away from the phone.”  The brunette bit her lip.  “If she’s got his gun…”

“She could shoot him as we make entry,” Wordy finished, glancing back at his boss.

Sarge considered, his eyes flicking back and forth.  “Giles?”

“Yes, sir?” Giles questioned.

“Does she hate you enough to pick up if _you_ call Roy?”

Wordy blinked, confused by the tactic.  With Ed and Spike gone, he _needed_ Giles on entry.

“I think so,” Giles replied, though he sounded just as confused.

“Jules, keep trying her landline,” Sarge instructed.  “Giles, get back to the Command Truck, give Jules your phone, then head back to Lou.”

“Copy,” both acknowledged.

Wordy swallowed.  “If she hears Jules, it’s all over, Sarge.”

“I hear you, Wordy.  But we need some way to get in contact and if she thinks Giles is trying to call Roy, she may get irritated enough to pick up and rant at him.  That gives us an opening.”  The Sarge leaned back against the side of the house.  “Sam, keep trying to find us a shot; if Jules has to use Giles’ phone, we need a Scorpio shot before she can kill Roy.”

“Got it.”

* * * * *

Roy tried to cringe as Suzanne laughed at him, high and scornful, but his body _still wouldn’t move_.  The fogginess in his head was finally fading enough that he could think straight, but that didn’t do him a lick of good with no muscle control; he felt like a puppet with its strings cut.  He prayed his SOS had gone through, but he had no way to know.

Then he felt Suzanne’s hands on his body, dragging him over the broken glass and scattered TV parts.  His jacket, pants, and boots protected him from the worst of it, but one shard of glass whipped across his face and several more wedged in his clothing, jabbing into his chest and legs.  Unable to move, he was helpless to stop her or snag at his one, solitary lifeline.  He swallowed, trying to speak, but somewhere between his head and his mouth, the words died a silent, mute death.

Roy grunted as he was carelessly tossed into a chair leg, his head banging the wood and coming to rest on the floor.  His fingers twitched and he thought he felt his foot shift, but he couldn’t be sure.  From his new position, he had a perfect view of Suzanne’s kitchen ceiling and the overhead wooden fan, turning lazily.  A tiny gasp worked its way free when Suzanne kicked him, right in the chest; fire erupted and Roy longed for the simple freedom to curl up in pain.

_I guess I’m coming, Jerome…don’t be too mad at me for showing up so soon…_

Cold black eyes bored into him and Suzanne snorted in contempt, kneeling next to his head.  “They will blame you, you know,” she purred.  Roy tried his very best to glare at her.  “Oh, your partner might suspect the truth, but I doubt anyone will believe the partner of an abusive, girlfriend-beating cop.”

“I didn’t,” Roy rasped out, wishing he could say more than that.  “They won’t.”  He tried to turn his head away, but nothing happened.

Suzanne laughed, high, cold, and piercing.  “They _will_ believe me, Lònaid,” she jeered.  “Particularly after I tell them you _raped_ me.”

Roy struggled to move his jaw, to speak, but it seemed his facial muscles were tired of working.  Not that it would do him any good anyway, he could see that now.  He wondered why he’d never seen this side of her before, but gave the speculation up as a bad job.  Wasn’t like he could change the past…not this time anyway.

Suzanne rose and walked away, leaving Roy alone to consider the fast approaching end of his life.  He would’ve liked to find someone to settle down with, the detective decided wistfully.  A couple kids, the white picket fence…maybe a dog to spoil rotten.  Yeah.  His brother Ed had never had a dog and there hadn’t been extra money for a pet growing up.  Idly, Roy debated which breed of dog he would’ve liked.  Nothing small and yappy…or rat-like.  Maybe a dog big enough to run with?  Or a dog he could teach to do tricks?

By the time Suzanne came back, Roy was busy debating the merits of a Jack Russell terrier versus a Scottish terrier while also considering if he should stick to a dog big enough to bite ex-girlfriends.  Her touch made his pleasant fantasy vanish; Roy struggled with all his might to move, to fight back, but all that happened was an ungainly partial flop.  She sneered and deliberately grabbed his legs instead of his chest to drag him.

Yelps of pain caught in his throat as his head struck the table legs, the wall, and even the lashing metal end of a broken bungee cord in the middle of her hallway.  He was vaguely pleased when his arms somehow caught on a door jamb and forced her to stop and pull him free.  His pleasure vanished when she kicked his back in retaliation.

The room she towed him into was dark, with the curtains shut, though Roy spied light peeking in through the upper windows.  It took him a minute to place the room, then he mentally shuddered.  Her bedroom and he had a _pretty_ good idea of the scenario she meant to set up.

The poor, tied up, abused – oh, and raped, how could he forget that? – girlfriend fighting her way free and snatching her captor’s gun in the nick of time, stopping him in his tracks before he could kill her.  The detective wondered how she intended to get him upright enough to make it look like he’d been standing when the first shot hit him, then decided to hope she overlooked that detail.  It was rather morbid, Roy knew, that his greatest hope was her screwing up his murder enough to get caught, but he didn’t have much _else_ to hope for.

_Sorry, partner, didn’t mean to die on you.  Just…don’t let her kill you, too, Giles._

Roy screwed his eyes shut, not particularly wanting to see what Suzanne had planned for his murder.  Panic squeezed his chest, but fear wasn’t enough to save him this time.

_I don’t wanna die!  Please, God, I don’t wanna die!_

* * * * *

“Sarge, she’s still not picking up,” Jules reported.  “The longer we wait…”

“Copy,” Greg replied heavily.  “Use Giles’ phone, Jules.”

“Got it, Sarge.”

The team listened, ready to move as the Auror’s phone rang and rang…and rang.

* * * * *

Partway through Suzanne hoisting his body upright, the phone started ringing.  When she paused to look, Roy strained with everything he had to move.  He could feel the tips of his fingers twitch, but nothing more.  A sneering laugh rang out.

“Your _partner_ is _calling_ me,” Suzanne announced.  “Shall I tell him, Lónaid?  Shall I tell him how you attacked me, how you are holding me _captive_?”

He tried to glare, but speaking was beyond him.  Didn’t matter…if Giles was calling, then he’d found the message.  Even if he _hadn’t_ , Giles knew him – he’d know Suzanne was full of it.

She stared back at him, the blackness in her eyes receding for an instant.  Green peeked out, tears shining.  “Why, Lónaid, why did you chose _him_ over _me_?”

Wait, _what_?  When had he _ever_ chosen Giles over Suzanne?  Giles was his partner, fast becoming his new best friend, but Suzanne was his _girlfriend_.  He might’ve been getting wary of the whole Wiccan thing, but she was _still_ his girlfriend.  Loyalty had never been in question.  Never.

Suzanne’s expression tightened, her eyes narrowing.  In two steps, she grabbed his shirt collar, yanking his limp head close.  “You _dare_ ,” she hissed, blackness flooding green once more.  “You _deny_ it, hoping to _save_ your own _skin_.”  She shoved him back, then slapped him; his face stung from the force of impact.

While he was still reeling, Suzanne whirled and stalked to the phone, snatching it up.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her eyes turn green; right at the edge of hearing, there was a wail of dismay that crawled down his spine and screeched against his ears.

* * * * *

Just as the phone was about to go to voicemail, someone picked up and snapped, “Go away, Giles, Lònaid’s taking the rest of today off.”  Without skipping a beat, the woman growled, “Don’t _ever_ call Lònaid while he’s with me _again_ , Giles.  You are a disgrace to your coven; I _know_ you’re the one who told Lònaid our secrets.  You swore an _oath_ to keep our secrets and you _betrayed_ that oath when you told an _outsider_ about us.  If not for you, Lònaid would be in my coven _right_ now.”

Greg restrained a whistle as Suzanne Powers ranted and railed over the phone, not giving Jules even a single opening to speak.  He signaled Wordy and the brunet nodded, carefully working the door’s lock to force it open.

“Team, move in,” Wordy hissed over the comm.

Only a step behind Wordy, Greg restrained a cringe at the devastation in Suzanne’s living room and the blood on the floor.  The two followed the trail of blood into the kitchen and made their way down a hallway.  The Sergeant frowned at the broken bathroom door and bungee cords, seeing all too clearly how Suzanne had set the stage to frame Roy for a vicious attack, perhaps even more than _just_ an attack.  But once Roy was in custody, once his statement was taken, the tables would turn, which meant Roy was the one remaining loose end in this scenario; Suzanne could not allow him to survive if she hoped to avoid a heavy prison sentence for kidnapping and attacking a police officer.

Over the comm, Greg heard Suzanne’s rant winding down and the woman finally demanded, “Well?  What do you have to say for yourself?”

Ahead of them, Greg spotted Lou and Giles; Wordy signaled them to search one end of the house while he and Greg would search the other end.  The Sergeant spared a bitter jab of regret for the fact that, unlike his team, he couldn’t track Roy.

“Suzanne?  Suzanne, this is Jules Callaghan.”  Ignoring the subject’s gasp, Jules steamed right ahead.  “Suzanne, if Roy is holding you captive, why do you want him in your coven?”

The silence on the line was ominous; Parker’s instincts prickled, alarm jabbing through him.  They were running out of time.

“You know Roy?”

“Yeah, Suzanne, I do,” Jules replied.  “I work with his brother.”  The deflection was good, the explanation perfectly reasonable, but Greg could practically _feel_ the negotiation going off the rails.

“You.  Know.  Roy.”  Jealously fairly _seethed_ in every _syllable_.  “Does _he_ know _you_?”  Taken aback, Jules hesitated, all the answer Suzanne needed.

“I have the solution,” Sam announced coldly.  “She’s got Roy strung up in her bedroom.”

“Where, Sam?” Greg breathed.

“Green wall.”

 

Suzanne’s voice rang out over the comm, an eerie overtone to it that made the hair on the back of Greg’s neck stand straight up; it grated against his hearing, nails on a chalkboard.  “If I can’t have Lònaid, neither can _He!_ ” the suddenly inhuman voice spat.

Two gunshots rang out, blurring together even as Greg and Wordy rammed through the door, yelling orders to drop the gun.  Greg saw Suzanne fall backwards, Roy’s gun still in her hands.  As much as he hated it, he advanced on her, kicking the weapon away and covering her as Wordy flipped her over and cuffed her body.

“ _Roy!_ ” Giles howled; Greg turned to see the wizard diving for his fallen partner.

The bullet had gone through the younger Lane, entering right beneath his heart and causing untold damage in its flight through his body and out the other side.  Even worse, whatever Suzanne had used to incapacitate the detective was still working; all of Roy’s attempts to gasp for air were failing and his lips were rapidly turning blue.

“You can’t,” Giles whimpered, shaking Roy’s limp body desperately, “You can’t leave me alone, partner.”  He clutched at Roy, his professionalism a distant memory.  “Don’t die on me!”

“We need EMS,” Wordy roared, but Greg knew they’d be too late if something wasn’t done _now_.

“Lou, move him,” Greg barked, launching himself at the fallen detective.

Giles fought wildly as Lou dragged him away from his partner, sobbing and screaming Roy’s name.  Greg disregarded the Auror as he hefted the gravely injured man up on his side.  “Roy, breathe,” he ordered, glancing up at Wordy.  “Wordy, take the front.”

Roy’s gasping marginally improved as Wordy yanked the bedspread over and pressed it against Roy’s chest firmly.  But that still left the gaping exit wound.  “Sam, get in here!” Greg snarled.  “We’ve got a through-and-through here, we got to keep him from bleeding out.”  He judged Roy’s feeble attempts to move.  “And it looks like she drugged him.”

“With what?” Jules demanded over the comm even as Lou reentered the bedroom and thrust a generous sized towel at Greg.

“Don’t know,” Lou reported.  “Sam’s got Giles, Sarge.”

“Copy,” Greg murmured, pressing the towel against Roy’s back and applying as much pressure as he could.  “Lou, support his shoulders; I don’t think he can breathe on his back right now.”

Lou worked his way into the center, griping Roy’s shoulders and keeping him on his side as his teammates fought to stem the bleeding.  But it was a losing battle and they all knew it; even if Roy survived long enough to reach the hospital, the odds of him lasting through the surgeries necessary to save his life…

“Stay with us, Roy,” Wordy murmured.  “You got through whatever she did to you, don’t give up now.”

Roy gasped and rasped, struggling to speak.  “No, man,” Lou chided, “Save your breath, just keep on breathing.”

Gray eyes rolled as far to the side as they could, straining to meet Parker’s gaze.  “Did good?” Roy managed.

Greg felt his heart break at the limp, plaintive question.  “Yeah, Roy,” he whispered, painfully aware that Eddie probably wouldn’t make it in time to say good-bye to his brother.  “You did great.”

Roy coughed blood; Sergeant and constable locked gazes and Wordy shook his head sadly.  They were losing him.

“Sor’y,” Roy gasped out.  “C’n’…sta…”  Gray eyes glazed over as the dying man muttered, “Don’…wanna…go…”

Greg choked back bile and turned his head towards Lou.  “Call the Healers,” he ordered.

“Sarge…”

“He’s dying, call them.”

Lou looked down at Roy, then nodded sharply, working his phone free from his vest.  Even if the Healers arrived in the next five minutes, Greg knew that wouldn’t be fast enough; Roy would be long dead.  But there was _one_ thing he could try…he could attempt to tether Roy to his broken body until help arrived.  He _had_ to try; he wasn’t going to tell Eddie that he’d let Roy die in his arms.

“Sarge, don’t,” Wordy yelped as his Sergeant started to glow around the edges.  “Sarge, you don’t have enough magic, stop!”

“Wordy, you’ve got command.”

Greg’s left hand moved to the side of Roy’s neck, glowing red.

Roy’s eyes shot open, his chest expanding in a death gasp.

Lou’s call connected.

Both constables were forced back from Roy and their Sergeant as magic lashed out around the two men.

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ominous drumroll*
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed, despite the evil, evil cliffhanger up there. I welcome all reviews, but please be reminded that any and all flames will be fed to my Death Knight's Netherwing - and she's hungry! In other news, we'll be starting our next story "Bite of the Wolf" on Friday, May 3rd, 2019.
> 
> See you on the battlefield!


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